


Only Human

by amiserableone



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras is kinda trash but I relate to him, I had a concept and ran with it, I had muse, Lots of Religious references, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, This is Bad, if I say god one more time I’m ending it all, kind of smut?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-24 00:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18158852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amiserableone/pseuds/amiserableone
Summary: 3 instances in which Grantaire realized Enjolras was not as divine as he seemed.





	Only Human

**Author's Note:**

> This was very much inspired by the fic “Achilles and Patrocles” which is possibly my favorite E/R fic ever! It’s brilliant! Yeah! This is trash! Let’s go!

The first time Grantaire was made aware of Enjolras’ humanity was unintentional. In fact, to anyone that didn’t study his every movement, the act may have gone unnoticed. But to the cynic, his blue eyes perpetually trained on the enthralling believer, it most certainly did not.

The gesture was small, minuscule even, but it was there. 

He had paused.

Enjolras, Grantaire had observed, did not need to think about his words. They were encrypted in his heart, always walking along the tip of his tongue, he did not need to conjure them upon a remark, for the words were already there.

Grantaire knew, of course, that he had to think, because he was well read and informed and always knew the correct things to say. He had always supposed, however, that the stars had deemed this man a savior, and a savior did not need something as trivial as words to trip him up. The angels gifted him with a tongue as golden as his hair, and presence larger than life itself. The words flowed like rivers.

It had been a glorious day for Enjolras. He’d slain every injustice and convinced many of the young men in his presence of the republic that day, but it was never enough. 

Enjolras would debate any man that dared to contradict him until dusk. He would not pause to breathe, or think, as humans do, he would simply work his charm on each and every person, luring them into believing every word that rolled off that marvelous tongue.

The cynic was appalled and enraptured at the same time, wanting desperately to believe in anything the man said, but also knowing that if anyone were to throw the world off it’s axis, it would be the slender, frankly beautiful man before him. 

Oh, and how he was beautiful. His golden hair was long, curling gently at the ends, catching the evening sunlight as it poured through the windows of the Musain. His blue eyes were filled with fire and determination, conveying a sort of recklessness that his ideals did not. His rouge lips contorted and bent as he argued that day, and Grantaire could not help but to imagine how he would look with his fingers between the man’s lips.

And by God, Grantaire thought, he was beautiful when his humanity showed.

The words were nothing much, but the minute they left another man’s lips Grantaire knew Enjolras would falter. 

“What makes you so sure that you’re our God-sent leader, hm? Why do you deem yourself as better than the rest of us?”

A cruel remark, especially since Enjolras most certainly did not believe this. Anyone who paid the smallest ounce of attention could see that Enjolras was the sun, and his friends—brothers, rather—were the planets revolving around him.

The sun did not ask to be at the center of the universe. But the sun had to be, for life—true life—could not exist without his warm rays shining down. 

It was never Enjolras’ intention to seem as though he was somehow superior to his fellow men. He thought of all of them as equals, even, through and through. To hear someone so blatantly believe otherwise, well, it made his faith in himself falter.

Perhaps he did make his friends look inferior to him when he took the spotlight most of the time. He had never paused to think about it.

But now, for approximately two seconds, Grantaire counted, he paused.

His eyes contemplated a response, and the moment of silence ended quickly. Enjolras regained his divinity as a speaker, and continued to slay the injustices of the modern world. No one noticed a thing.

Grantaire did not say a word, of course, going back to sipping his brandy in the corner of the café. He promised himself that he would not bring up the attractive fragility of Enjolras’ face during the silence. No, he could never.

After all, underneath a face sculpted by the gods and persona unmatchable by any other mortal, Enjolras was a living, breathing man. The mask had to slip at some point.

Weeks later, when the Paris sun felt as though it were melting onto the streets, Grantaire would be forced to recognize him as human once again.

The believer was drunk, and had no clue who else would be awake at that ungodly hour, so he found himself at the cynic’s door. 

Grantaire was, for once, not under the influence of alcohol. He had been trying to paint something of worth all night, and was about to turn to the bottle when he heard a knock at the door.

Grantaire rose to his feet cautiously, knowing it had to be well past 3 and no one ever came to him during the nighttime, at least not when he was sober.

Unlatching the door, part of him wanted to laugh at who he saw standing there. None other than Enjolras, the terrible, with his eyes red and hair tousled, evidently wasted beyond belief.

They stood in silence for a moment, Enjolras incredibly interested in the floor, Grantaire furrowing his eyebrows at him.

“Jesus, Enjolras,” R finally said, something of a laugh in his tone.

“I will hear nothing of Jesus, Grantaire,” the man grumbled, his voice low and raspy.

“Rough night then, eh?” 

“How do you believe in absolutely nothing? How is it that you wake every morning with no reason to go on, yet you haven’t drunk yourself to death yet?” 

The words stung, but not nearly as much as the sudden glossiness of Enjolras’ eyes did.

“Just come in, yes?” The painter sighed, pushing a dark curl from his face.

Enjolras responded with nothing but a sigh, stepping inside the door, hesitant to immerse himself in the atmosphere of his apartment, it seemed. After a few moments of nothing but the sounds of their breathing, he spoke once more.

“How can I doubt myself now? Is it not too late? The others believe in me, why is it I find myself feeling so lost, when the solution is right before my eyes?” He laughed shallowly, shaking his head.

“You’re human, Enjolras,” the cynic reminded him, coming to that realization as well.

Certainly, they were only humans, and they fucked like it that night. Hot and sweaty and fast, Grantaire took him again and again, committing every inch of that pale skin to memory. If he had to be nothing more than human, Grantaire decided, he would make him feel like the holiest man on earth, worshipped with kisses, moans, and the weary smile on Grantaire’s face as they came in unison once more, falling back into bed.

He decided he could die happy like this, an ethereal man in bed next to him, panting and sweaty from the vapid love making of the last hours. Though he tried to savor the moment for as long as possible, Grantaire soon fell asleep, exhausted and happy, his bed feeling more full than it ever had.

Of course, Enjolras could not have been expected to stay after the sun rose, and was gone before Grantaire had the chance to thank him for the best night of his life.

The final time Grantaire would be forced to look science in the face and see his beating heart and lungs full of air would not be until the following summer, the revolution ringing loud and clear in his ears.

Grantaire had been stirred from his drunken slumber, stumbling forward to find his god, his Enjolras, surrounded by soldiers with their guns angled directly at his chest.

No, no. Grantaire’s mind raced. Not now, not like this. However, there was no miracle to be had, no wings to be sprung upon his savior’s back, and accepted his fate as it was.

Grantaire approached him, slowly and calmly, the wry smile on his face as wide as ever. He shoved past the guards, finding his place next to Enjolras, as it should be.

Taking the hand that he had dreamt of through the seasons, he could feel the fear in the man beside him.

He was young, and beautiful, and would die a martyr, with no one but a drunk cynic to hold his hand.

And that was alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Validate me with kudos & comments, if you feel so inclined.


End file.
